Raze
by arraneae
Summary: SSB but everything is terrible


When enough force gets injected into a human leg for her to be propelled five times her height, a  
certain amount of precision needs to be observed in the dissipation of that force for her to  
continue having legs. The hardware which enables such mobility has a consistent propensity for the  
shattering of kneecaps, rending of ligaments, and the occasional total lower body obliteration. Sam  
had the pleasure of being able to boast two fully functional legs, both flesh and bone- certainly a  
rarity among her ilk. In fact, despite the superhuman agility her tools imparted her with, Sam could  
say with honesty that she was fully human, lacking a single invasive modification- mechanical or  
biological. Again, a trait which put her in an extreme minority. The way she saw it, these mods  
never actually increased one's potential, or gave one an insurmountable advantage over another. No,  
they merely widened the acceptable margin of error the modified individual had available to them.  
Sure, a partially cybernetic lower body would have meant Sam could survive sloppier landings, or spring  
from a more roughly calculated position, or offload some of the finer details to a more mechanical  
mind. But what all that really meant was just that mistakes would be less punishing. Sam had no  
intention of making mistakes.  
No, it was exactly that infinitessimally fine manipulation of twitch mechanics and millisecond body  
manipulation that made her so formidable in the first place. She wasn't as strong as any of the  
others, wasn't as resilient against pain and injury, was consistently far more vulnerable. She knew  
any sustained injury would be enough to do her in. But none of that mattered, so long as no one  
could make a mark on her.  
That was Sam's ace. She was fast. Faster than anyone she had ever fought, by enough of a margin for  
that speed alone to carry her to victory each and every time. The idea was simple: if she expends  
less energy avoiding each attack than her adversary expends executing it, she can outlast him  
indefinitely. Sooner or later, it will become impossible for him to maintain his guard, and she can  
end it. Simple.  
It's a numbers game. A resource game. That's how Sam saw it, anyways. Numbers were what ran through  
her head as she fought, as she trained, as she lay trying to fall asleep.  
She thought about numbers as she pulled herself over the crossbar, counting repetitions, first with  
one arm, then the other. She thought about numbers as she stretched one leg out and bent down to  
meet it, maximal angles, optimized torsions and yaws. She thought about numbers as she pulled off  
her warmup gear to get ready for the fight that would soon be initiated. She fought in a simple  
outfit- effectively an blue jumpsuit, tight enough to avoid catching or being caught, but loose  
enough to never be restrictive. Some preferred to play to the crowds more- something a little  
flashier, something with some lights to sync up with their movements. Maybe show some more skin,  
be a little provocative, get people rooting for you. Not Sam. No, publicity be damned- she wasn't  
there to appease the audience or put on a show. She was there to win.  
Sam thought about numbers as she laid out her tools. Eighty percent of the day's pot is sixteen  
thousand, she thought as she laid out her boots. Twenty percent would be four thousand... if she  
were alive to claim it, of course, she thought as she set her pistol down adjacent. If a fatality  
couldn't be avoided, sixty percent would be... twelve thousand. A substantial prize, still, but  
enough of a difference to offer an incentive. She thought about what she would do with sixteen.  
There were bills to pay, first of all. Food. Some clean water. Twelve would cover the basics, enough  
to cover repairs to her tools... but little more. Not enough for the future. Sixteen it was, then.  
And it was decided.

Sam sat with her elbows on her knees, mentally rehashing her list. Pistol; cleaned, oiled, loaded.  
Boots; cleaned, oiled, charged. Pads shined. Power supplies in place. Foils secured tightly to each  
forearm...  
The seven-segment clock in front of her ticked down. Somewhere in Sam's head, deep beyond her  
mental listing, something chuckled.  
"Retro."  
00:01:00, the clock read, as Sam mentally ran up one side of her body and down the other, mentally  
checking each muscle. Making sure her all her wetware was primed. Thirty seconds. Legs were fine.  
Twenty. Arms. Fingers. Wrists. Five. Four. Three.. Thirty seconds. Legs were fine. Twenty. Arms.  
Fingers. Wrists. Five. Four. Three...  
Sam closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  
From somewhere far away, she heard the voice.  
"SAMARAN... VERSUS; IKHAEL!"  
Ikhael? Sam didn't recognize it. That could be a good sign, she thought... little  
notoriety probably meant little history probably meant little experience.  
She ascended the stairs through the floor of the arena, shielding her eyes as she entered the  
lighted area. Before she could even make out the floor around her, the hairs on the back of her neck  
stood up. Cameras. Dozens of them, at least. Hundreds? Possibly. It didn't matter. Enough to capture  
everything, that's what was important. That's how these were designed.  
Sam shook off the feeling and steadied herself. Her eyes adjusted to the light and she was able to  
make out the figure standing across from her. Tall. Male. Dressed all in black. Oversized  
sword slung over his back, almost comedically.  
"Ike," Sam said to no one. She remembered him- or talk of him, rather- from one of her usual  
haunts. Newer, as she had posited; one with a definitive flair for the dramatic. If speculation and  
rumor were to be believed, likely had the full suite of cybernetic limbs... certainly up to the  
shoulder, assuming that sword wasn't hollow. And, in Sam's experience, that sort of person probably  
wasn't keen on biological legs either.  
"THREE," a voice rang out somewhere above. Sam's pre-combat mental gears were whirring as usual.  
"TWO," it boomed. A sword that obnoxiously large meant Ikhael was probably more concerned with image  
than with function- unless he came from money, cybernetics were probably on the cheaper end. And the  
independently wealthy did not often find themselves on Sam's side of the cameras.  
"ONE..."


End file.
